


The Artificer

by Ias



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 'who needs a son when you can make a clockwork AI?' --curufin, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: "You are a partner to me, a kindred spirit, a friend. I am merely interested in an element of your circumstances.""The circumstances being that I am a machine."





	

**Author's Note:**

> The thoughts that started this AU: Curufin was one of the greatest craftsmen of the Noldor, but who was Celebrimbor's mother? What if he never had one?

The door opened, and then closed with a click. Celebrimbor did not raise his head.

The tweezers in his fingers were absolutely steady as he laid the final gear into place, his eyes not once wavering from his work, even as the sound of footsteps padded closer, stopped just behind him. The minutes marched on, punctuated only by a faint ticking noise. At last, and with fastidious care, Celebrimbor lifted the circular panel of buffed bronze and laid it over the back of the device. Once it was secure, he sat back with a sigh and regarded his work with tired eyes. His fingers, which had been so steady and still immediately starting their customary drumming on the table.

"What is it?" A familiar voice, just by his ear. Celebrimbor glanced over his shoulder to see Annatar's smile, the one that meant he might be poking just a little bit of fun.

Without a word, Celebrimbor plucked the circle of bronze from the table and set it in Annatar's hands. The Maia's eyebrow rose a fraction. "It's heavier than I thought. And…" His eyes did not move, but Celebrimbor knew he was inspecting it with deeper senses. His gaze darted back to Celebrimbor's, and now his smile was full of true pleasure. "Oh, _Tyelpe_. It's beautiful. What does it do?"

Celebrimbor accepted the mechanism back. "You're predictable, Annatar. I could show you the most finely crafted diadem that Middle Earth will ever see, and you would ask me whether it can also heat water for tea."

"Are you teasing me instead of answering my question because you've crafted little more than a pretty piece of jewelry?"

At that, Celebrimbor smiled. He tilted his hand for Annatar to see, then with his thumb rotated the dial set into the device’s face a couple of degrees to the right. It immediately began to click. "It's a way of measuring time. The dial will rotate at a set rate until it reaches the end, like so."

Annatar watched as the clicking device slowly returned to its original position. As soon as it did, it emitted a soft ringing noise that Celebrimbor silenced by pressing a panel on its side. "I invented it to help with more time-sensitive projects."

"How does it work?"

Celebrimbor weighed it in his hand thoughtfully. "I'll take it apart for you sometime. It's a manner of gears and cogs which move at a set rate when a spring is wound tight. It was quite easy to design."

"I'll imagine that so." There was a glint in Annatar’s eyes that made Celebrimbor look away, the implications beneath his words clear. Celebrimbor immediately set to straightening his workspace, the nervous leap in his fingertips mostly disguised.

"So what brings you here, Annatar?" he said lightly.

Annatar laughed. "You do, Tyelpe. You haven't been seen outside your workshop in days. I wanted to be sure you hadn't invented some form of invisibility without the courtesy of consulting me first."

"If I were to invent such a thing I would undoubtedly need your input."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't look so smug. I'm merely speaking realistically."

As he spoke, Celebrimbor moved to set the timepiece back on the corner of his desk. At once the smoothness of his movement was arrested; his arm jerked, nearly dropping his creation, and there was a sound like metal scraping on metal. All the fingers of his right hand immediately seized up.

“Are you alright?” Annatar took a step closer.

“I’m fine. Just a moment please.” His words came too quickly. Celebrimbor turned away, embarrassment making his movements hasty as he withdrew a small oil can from a drawer. He turned his chair so that his back was to Annatar. With his functioning arm he drew the sleeve of his robe up above the elbow, to reveal the smooth skin below. There was a place just below the wrist where it stopped, almost like the seam of a dress.

Where his hands were delicate and lined with the tell-tale wear of work, his forearms and above were smooth and hairless as marble. Celebrimbor carefully dug his fingers into the seam and began to pull back the cover of his arm, working it open with the speed of practice until the metal beneath was laid bare. He applied the oil to his stiffened joints quickly, not meeting Annatar's eyes as he did. As he did the locked joints immediately softened, and he transferred the oil can to his right hand in order to repeat the process on the other arm. His motions were hurried as he covered himself up again, aware that Annatar had been watching the whole time despite his clear desire for privacy.

When he turned back Annatar's face was still set with their familiar amusement, but his eyes were hungry with the same look they got when Celebrimbor began to describe a new project that Annatar would be instrumental in completing.

"My apologies," Celebrimbor mumbled. "The metal goes stiff if I don’t maintain it. I suppose I haven't been taking very good care of myself."

"Where is Narvi?"

"Moria. Visiting family. He'll be back in a month."

Annatar settled onto a nearby chair. "That must be difficult for you. I imagine that there are certain kinds of maintenance you cannot do yourself."

Celebrimbor shrugged. The drumming of his fingers had returned, as rhythmic as the ticking of his internal devices. "I'll manage."

"And what if your back locks up in the middle of carrying a crucible of molten steel?"

"Then that would be very bad timing for me. But I've rebuilt limbs before."

"Tyelpe…" Annatar chided gently. He leaned forward, his golden hair pulled back to the nape of his neck and snaking over one shoulder, shining in the candlelight. "You shouldn't be so careless with your well-being. Surely there is something I could do."

Celebrimbor blinked, hundreds of tiny little gears and levers and pistons inside of him working in tandem to create that single expression. "What could you do?"

"Whatever Narvi normally does." When Celebrimbor hesitated still, he tilted his head. "Surely it isn't so complicated that you cannot explain it to me."

"It isn't that." The tapping of Celebrimbor's fingers conspicuously ceased. "It's just that Narvi has helped me with this for so long—it—I'm used to him, and he's used to me. It's a very personal thing."

Annatar quirked an eyebrow. "Intimate?"

"It's difficult to explain." A living person might have shown signs of agitation, dragging a hand over their face, pacing,  their expression betraying themselves. Not so with Celebrimbor. All of his motion was inside, ticking and clicking beneath the surface like a body full of insects.

Annatar leaned back with a sigh. "You share almost everything with me, Tyelpe. Everything except for this. I think you know that I've wanted a closer look at your own inner workings for some time."

Celebrimbor looked up at him, and affected a bitter smile. "Surely you can understand why I haven't, Annatar. You're critical enough of my own creations—which I appreciate, of course, don't think I'm complaining—but I don't cherish the idea of being a project under the lens of your scrutiny myself."

Annatar rose. Celebrimbor watched him with his characteristic neutral expression, but his wariness manifested in other ways; faintly, so quiet it was almost not there at all, was the sound of something frantically ticking inside of him. Annatar knelt before him and carefully clasped his hand. Celebrimbor could feel the pressure, but not the warmth.

"You are more than the sum of your parts, Tyelpe." Celebrimbor very deliberately made a face and Annatar chuckled. "I know. I couldn't resist the pun. But don't you believe me?" Annatar squeezed his hand, and seemed to palpate it to subtly inspect the components beneath. "You are a partner to me, a kindred spirit, a friend. I am merely interested in an element of your circumstances."

"The circumstances being that I am a machine."

"Are you?" Annatar leaned over to pluck the timepiece from the desk and hold it before Celebrimbor's eyes. "You based this off your own design, correct?" Celebrimbor nodded cautiously. "And yet it cannot feel, or think. It merely performs what function it was designed to. _That_ is a machine. And as highly or lowly as you might think of your creator, he lacked the capacity to design a machine so perfect as you. Surely you understand why I want to inspect you closer."

"And once you satisfy your curiosity, will you be done with me?" Celebrimbor’s words were sharper than he had intended.

Annatar blinked. "That's a foolish question, Tyelpe. I doubt that I could glean all I wanted to know about you by simply inspecting your mechanisms."

Celebrimbor hesitated a moment more and then pulled his hand out of Annatar's. He stood quickly and walked over to the low cot in the far corner of the room, where Celebrimbor's books and favorite prototypes were clustered. Without another word he set out a can of oil, a jar of narrow metal implements, a cloth. Then he lay on his stomach on the bed, brushed his hair over his shoulder to expose the back of his neck, and glanced at Annatar with a hint of a challenge.

Slowly Annatar stepped forward, a small smile growing on his lips. He sat on the bed at Celebrimbor's side. Celebrimbor watched him from the corner of his eye. Annatar did not need to be told what to do. His hands raised to the clasps of Celebrimbor's robes, a long line of them from the nape of his neck running all the way down his back like the knobs of his spine. Annatar took his time, undoing one after another until he could part open the robe over the strangely smooth skin, running his hand down the seam of Celebrimbor's back, fingers running over the bumps of the metal spine pushed up from under the cool flesh.

"I need not tell you to be very, very careful."

Annatar chuckled. His fingers lingered at the base of Celebrimbor's neck. He had no muscles to tighten, and yet his body was rigid with tension. "I promise not to tinker. May I?"

"You need to—ah—yes. Just like that."

He felt Annatar’s fingers deftly ease open the seam at the back of his neck, peeling it back to reveal the metal beneath. Celebrimbor thought of how quickly Annatar learned, on how he must have been watching Celebrimbor carefully for some time now, collecting data, preparing for this very moment. When Narvi had first helped Celebrimbor in such a way he’d had no other choice; Celebrimbor was twisted and prone, and Narvi had shuddered in revulsion as he beheld the mechanisms under Celebrimbor’s flesh.

“It’s like a chrysalis opening up and a great nasty beetle coming out!” Narvi had cried; and then gone suddenly, ashamedly silent as he realized the impact his words were likely to have. And indeed, Celebrimbor had not forgotten them. He lay very still beneath Annatar’s light touch, his face turned to the side to watch Annatar from the corner of his eye.  

Annatar let the two flaps of skin lie open, a strange flower blooming out of Celebrimbor’s back. For a while he simply sat and stared, and Celebrimbor began to think that he too was enraptured by the horror of it, a person full of gears and springs. But then his hand slid down to find Celebrimbor’s, and squeezed it gently.

“It’s remarkable,” Annatar breathed. “Even more than I thought it would be.”

Celebrimbor knew what he looked like. He had seen himself in mirrors before, opening the coating of false flesh meant to make him more palatable to his creator’s kind to see the true body beneath. _He_ had felt no revulsion when staring at the clicking, twitching complexity of his back—merely curiosity. The spine was a sleek interlocking curve lined with wires. The wires ran up and down his spine and branched out into his arms, his neck, below his hips out of sight. Within his ribs was a beehive of activity, constantly in motion, tiny gears whirring away at a feverish pace. That was what Annatar was seeing now. The thought made the ticking from within Celebrimbor’s ribs race faster.

Still, he lay patiently under Annatar's gaze, motionless and seemingly calm but for the restless shifting inside of him and the returning tap of his fingers, in time with the ticking mechanism in his chest.

“This takes the place of your heart, yes?” When Celebrimbor nodded, Annatar chuckled. “How sentimental!” Celebrimbor recognized the tone in his voice—Annatar wanted very badly to touch. But thankfully his attention shifted to the tools by the side of the bed that Celebrimbor had set out for him. “Where do I start?”

"The oil can. You may have noticed the access points on the spine." Annatar did not reach for it yet—his delight was palatable.

“Oh—that’s wonderful!” he cried. “Say something again.”

Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Annatar stooped closer over his back. “Your lungs are amazing. Like a bellows, but so much subtler. And the detail on your ribs—totally unnecessary of course, but it seems Curufinwë had a similar flair for beauty. I suppose you require air solely in preparation for speech?”

“I make a habit of breathing regularly all the same. Apparently there are some that find its absence disturbing.”

Annatar clicked his tongue. “Narrow minds.”

He began then, lifting the oil can and deftly set to work, touching the nozzle to each point on the spine with a gentle click of metal. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes."

"What does it feel like?"

"A sort of relief, a smoothness—like the tension going out of a rope."

Annatar finished with the oil can and set it back on the table. Celebrimbor flexed his back ever so slightly, the plates of his spine sliding against each other smoothly. "That's… a lot better, actually," he admitted. "If you could take the—"

Annatar was already moving, lifting a small metal tool with a brush on the end free and setting to cleaning the buildup of oil from between the gears. Celebrimbor went still beneath his ministrations. His head cautiously lowered onto his arm. The fevered movements of his machinery began to slow into something more relaxed. For a while there was only the faint sensations of Annatar seeing to his mechanisms, the gentle click of metal on metal.

“So delicate,” Annatar marveled. “Metal, but no stronger than flesh. A single broken gear, a single snipped cable—“

Celebrimbor laughed. “I hope you’re not planning on dissembling me already.”

“I could never destroy something so fine on a whim.” Celebrimbor felt Annatar’s fingers trailing over the metal planes inside of him. He had never been cold, but it felt something like a shiver must have. “How much damage can you sustain and still function?”

“I haven’t had the chance to find out. Most of my wounds end up on the surface.”

“Can you feel pain?”

Celebrimbor smiled against the pillow pressed to his cheek, but the expression was a bitter one. “Of course.”

Annatar’s fingers trailed over the curve of Celebrimbor’s ribs, undoubtedly studying the designs and script that flowed there. "Interesting," he said. "I can see how your creator’s handiwork is different from your own, and yet the similarities are obvious."

"He taught me his craft. I suppose I can thank him in part for being a quick study."

Annatar ran the tips of his finger over a tangle of machinery that Celebrimbor recognized by feel. "Some of these components are your own?"

"Repairs. Narvi helped me install them when I couldn't do it myself."

"Wonderful," Annatar said appreciatively. "You can grow and change in a way that transcends both metal and flesh. Perhaps one day you would consider allowing me to suggest some modifications."

Celebrimbor laughed quietly, though he did not think the Maia was joking. "I should have known you would be eager to offer your input."

"I can't wait to see your brain,” Annatar said with relish. “I suppose he put it in your head? There's no reason it would have to be there, of course." Celebrimbor felt his fingers trail over the back of his skull, running them through his hair. "It seems your creator went to a real effort to make you as close to organic as possible—the spine and ribcage alone are clearly designed more to harken back to the familiar rather than be most efficient in their own way. I wonder if it would be possible to move things around? But of course I would need to inspect the whole mechanism fully first. Where is the opening?" His fingers tilted against Celebrimbor's skull, seeking out a catch, a way in.

"Annatar, stop." Celebrimbor pulled away, pressing a hand over the back of his skull as if to protect it. At once the spinning and clicking in his chest had picked up again. "I don’t want you to do that.”

The silence at Celebrimbor’s back was palatable. “And what if something worse were to happen?” Annatar said. His tone was the same as it was at the start of every academic argument they had. “You’ve rebuilt limbs before, Tyelpe, but you cannot rebuild your own mind. If I could study it, create a prototype of my own, you would never have to worry—“

“—about death?” Celebrimbor’s mouth was twisted. “Aren’t I far enough removed from life already?”

“You cannot possibly value the parody of life over what your true form can offer you.” Now Annatar’s voice was growing sterner, the way it would when Celebrimbor was failing to grasp some concept in their discussions. “Don’t be foolish, Tyelpe. I know you’re not so short-sighted as that. Now,” he said, as if that ended the argument—and in fact his fingers returned to brush Celebrimbor’s hair away from his scalp—“how do I look at you? Really, this false skin is quite unwieldy, and purposeless as well. I’m sure we could remove it.” His fingers burrowed against Celebrimbor’s head like hungry, probing worms.

At once Celebrimbor sat up, jerking away from Annatar on the bed, his fists clenched tightly at his side. “Close my back, please." His voice was cold.

Annatar paused. Even now Celebrimbor could feel him watching his inner workings, could sense the pang of ravenous interest at seeing the way the gears and levers interacted in order to generate movement. "But I've only just begun. I'll need much longer to truly understand--"

Celebrimbor twisted his head around to fix Annatar with a level stare. "Thank you. You've done enough.”

Annatar's hand tightened on the brush. For a moment Celebrimbor was struck by the image of Annatar plunging it into the gears in his back, watching with a scientist’s interest to see exactly how they snarled and broke. But then Annatar placed the tool carefully back in its jar, and smoothed the panels of Celebrimbor's false flesh back into place with little more than an indulgent smile.

Celebrimbor sat up immediately, reaching back to do up what clasps of his robe he could reach. He could feel Annatar’s eyes on his back for a silent moment before the Maia sighed and reached out. "Tyelpe, let me."

Celebrimbor did not argue. He sat on the edge of the bed as Annatar slowly refastened the buttons running up the back of his robe. His false skin was much less sensitive than the mechanisms beneath; still he felt it when Annatar’s hand settled on his shoulder, and squeezed with slightly more force than necessary.

“What happened, Tyelpe?” he said softly. “I thought we were finally beginning to get somewhere.”

“I’m not your next project, Annatar,” Celebrimbor said. Still he did not pull away. “I need you to understand that. I don’t want to be rearranged to better fit your specifications. And I don’t think you want that either.”

He turned his head to meet Annatar’s gaze over his shoulder. The Maia searched his eyes, as if peering through them to the machinery beneath. Perhaps that was exactly what he was doing. But then he smiled, a little ruefully, and squeezed Celebrimbor’s shoulder again. “I suppose not,” he admitted. “I do like you, Tyelpe. It’s not _you_ I feel the need to improve, but merely your design. If you were to become my project, you would certainly be my favorite.”

Celebrimbor had to smile at that. “Despite my better judgement, I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“As you should.” Annatar’s hand rose to cup Celebrimbor’s cheek. He stilled beneath the gesture, the tenderness of it—and yet again he could not banish the image of Annatar wrenching his mouth open in search of the delicate vocal mechanisms deep inside. He pushed the thought away, and leaned into the touch—the spark of gratified pleasure in Annatar’s eyes was enough to dispel his fears.

“Next time you allow me to look at you again we can do things differently,” Annatar said. Celebrimbor did not bother to tell him that there might not be a next time, that one invitation did not equal blanket permission. But perhaps it was not the time. There would be other opportunities to challenge Annatar’s beliefs that he was entitled to any personal property as long as he wanted it badly enough.

Annatar’s hand rose to stroke Celebrimbor’s hair, not searching for a way in this time, but perhaps still thinking of it. Celebrimbor smiled, and within his metal skull the whirring gears began to slow.

 

* * *

 

 

It was weeks later when Celebrimbor opened the door to his apartments to find a small metal statuette on his threshold. He bent to pick it up. In his hands was a metal man, its face cast in the expression of a joyful smile, with an intricate metal key in its back. Celebrimbor wound it, and watched as the clockwork mechanisms came to life. The figure immediately began a stiff yet elaborate dance, its expression frozen, its machinery whirring and clicking.

It seemed Annatar had learned quickly from what he had seen, and learned it very well. Celebrimbor felt a swell of unease so strong it bordered on horror clicking through the mechanisms in his body as he watched the robot move. It twitched in his hands like an insect on a pin, the screw in its back turning deeper and deeper, until at last, thankfully, it was still.


End file.
